Portrait of a Spy

Chiara quietly tried to arrange a crisis of some sort that would require him to return to King Saul Boulevard. Failing, she had no choice but to enlist the help of Gilah, who sounded as if she were thoroughly enjoying Shamron’s prolonged absence. Reluctantly, she decreed that her husband could remain in Cornwall only until the painting was finished. Then he would have to come home.
    And so it was with a sense of foreboding that Shamron watched Nadia al-Bakari come slowly to life on the canvas. As the painting neared completion, Gabriel worked harder than ever. Yet at the same time, he appeared reluctant to finish. Beset by a rare case of indecision, he made countless minor additions and subtractions. Shamron privately relished Gabriel’s apparent inability to let go of the painting. Every day Gabriel delayed completion was another day Shamron would have with him.
    Eventually, the revisions stopped and Gabriel began the process of making peace with his work. Not just Nadia—all of it. Shamron saw the shadow of death lift gradually from Gabriel’s face. And on a clear morning in late August, he entered Gabriel’s makeshift studio to find him looking remarkably like the gifted young man he had plucked from the Bezalel Academy of Arts and Design in Jerusalem in the terrible autumn of 1972. Only Gabriel’s hair was different. Then it had been almost as black as Nadia’s. Now it was stained with gray at the temples—smudges of ash on the prince of fire.
    He was standing before the canvas with one hand pressed to his chin and his head tilted slightly to one side. Nadia glowed under the intense white light of the halogen work lamps. It was a portrait of an unveiled woman. A portrait of a martyr. A portrait of a spy.
    Shamron watched Gabriel for several minutes without speaking. Finally, he asked, “Is it finished, my son?”
    “Yes, Abba,” replied Gabriel after a moment, “I think it is.”
    The shippers came the next morning. By the time Gabriel returned from his walk along the cliffs, Shamron had gone. It was better that way, he told Chiara before leaving. The last thing Gabriel needed now was another messy scene.

Chapter 69
New York City

    I T WAS S ARAH B ANCROFT’S IDEA to hold the gala opening of the Nadia al-Bakari wing on the anniversary of 9/11. The head of New York’s Joint Terrorism Task Force suggested it might be wiser, given the current level of Middle East unrest, if she chose a less symbolic date, but Sarah held firm. The event would be held the evening of September 11. And if the task force couldn’t find a way to secure it, Sarah knew people who could.
    The demonstrators arrived for the party early, jamming West Fifty-third Street by the thousands. Most were feminists and human rights activists who supported Nadia’s goals of sweeping change in the Middle East, but a few wild-eyed jihadis from Brooklyn and New Jersey showed up to denounce her as a heretic. None seemed to notice Gabriel and Chiara as they stepped from the back of an Escalade and slipped into the museum. A security guard escorted them upstairs to MoMA’s business offices, where they found Sarah struggling with the zipper of her evening gown. Everywhere there were stacks of MoMA’s official monograph for the collection. Gabriel’s portrait of Nadia was on the cover.
    “You pushed us to the limit,” Sarah said, kissing his cheek. “We almost had to go with a backup cover.”
    “I had a bit of difficulty making a few final decisions.” Gabriel looked around the large office. “Not bad for a former curator from the Phillips Collection. I hope your colleagues never find out about the little sabbatical you took after leaving Isherwood Fine Arts in London.”
    “They’re under the impression I spent several years engaged in a private course of study in Europe. The hole in my provenance seems to have only added to my allure.”
    “Something tells me your love life will be much improved.” He glanced at her dress. “Especially after tonight.”
    “It’s Givenchy. It was scandalously expensive.”
    “It’s beautiful,” said Chiara, helping Sarah with the zipper, “and so are you.”
    “It’s funny how different the world looks when you’re not sitting in a dark room at Langley tracking the movements of terrorists.”
    “Just don’t forget they’re out there,” Gabriel said. “Or that some of them know your name.”
    “I suspect I’m the most carefully watched museum curator in the world.”
    “Who’s